


Siren Call

by anonymousbadgermole



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gen if you want, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Kon-El | Conner Kent, Young Justice Season 2, birdflash if you want, never forgive and never forget
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymousbadgermole/pseuds/anonymousbadgermole
Summary: For those who feed on trauma, Dick Grayson is a whole feast.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: referenced canonical character death, injuries, general distress...I guess?

Dick’s head was spinning as he closed his eyes against the vibrant light of the zeta tube. It was nonstop those days: every waking hour, thoughts whirling through the threads of his open cases, through potential training exercises and League to-do’s. Babs had had to remind him to take a few minutes to stop by Connor and M’gann’s to pick up his bike. He’d need it later that night, since Tim had asked for an extra hand on his op. Though that was going to cut into Dick’s time for reconnaissance on the Mitchell case. Ah, well. Late night tonight, extra coffee tomorrow.

The light faded, and Dick opened his eyes in Connor’s garage. The man himself was in the driveway, polishing the Wingcycle. Dick reminded himself not to call it that aloud - Artemis would never let him live that name down.

He whistled appreciatively as he approached his friend. “Looks brand new.”

Connor drew himself up, wiping a cloth across his brow. “It basically is.” He patted the body, repainted a sleek blue. “Had to order so many parts I could’ve built you a second one.”

Dick winced. “How much?”

Connor wiped his hands, running his gaze over the restored bike. “Fifteen-hundred should cover it.”

“Here’s eighteen,” Dick said, flipping through the wad of cash bills he’d brought for the technology-averse repairman.

Connor took the money without counting it. “I know you better than to ask,” he said, “but whatever happened to that thing-” he strode toward the house, clapping a hand on Dick’s shoulder as he passed, “I’m glad you survived it.”

Dick swallowed, tamping down the nausea that arose looking at the motorcycle, remembering that night, the cliff that was very nearly the wall of his grave. “Me too.”

“Well, coming in for a beer?” called Connor from the porch.

Dick’s eyebrows shot up, caught off guard by the offer. The concept of relaxation, of taking a break and kicking up his feet with a friend for a few hours...it was so foreign to him these days. To stop was to think. To think about how nice it was to share a drink with Connor and M’gann, which was to feel how wrong it was his best friend wasn’t there to share it, too.

“Thanks.” Dick shoved his helmet over his hair, shutting out the non-work-related thoughts. “But I’ve gotta get back.” He swung a leg over the bike and waved to Connor. His friend might’ve called a farewell, but it was lost to Dick in the revving of the engine and squealing of tires as he peeled out of the driveway.

Dick forced himself to focus on the wind in his hair as he tore through the forest. On the search function he needed to write when he got back. On the grappling hook he needed to clean before going out with Tim that night.

So focused was he that he failed to notice the person standing in the road before it was too late to do anything but veer into an impossible left turn, which sent the Wingcycle skidding into a tree and Dick rolling violently over the forest floor.

It felt like ages before his body flopped to a stop, facedown in pine needles. Dick lay still, trying to reteach himself to breathe. The sharp pain in his chest at the attempt informed him his bruised ribs had not been done any favors by this latest beating. He pressed his forehead into the dirt and willed the tears not to fall.

“ _Dick!_ ” a voice, faint, like it was miles away, floated into his throbbing skull. “Dick!”

He felt his heart stop. Hallucinating, his brain suggested. Concussion.

But again, he heard his name, and the passage of years could not dull the memory of his best friend’s voice.

All pain in his chest and head went forgotten as Dick scrambled to hands and knees, lifted his head to the road. What he’d mistaken for a person standing in the road was a _portal_ , black and white and crackling, and clawing through that portal was the unmistakable yellow-and-red torso of _Wally West_.

“Dick, help!” Wally yelled, reaching a red glove toward him, jolting backward through the portal, as if pulled by some unseen force on the other side.

Vague concepts - _speed force_ and _not dead_ and _trapped_ and _back_ \- flashed through Dick’s mind. But it was primal instinct which had him upright and _sprinting_ back to the road, arms outstretched, reaching wildly for his best friend - Wally’s face, joyous and relieved and _panicked_ all at once, spurring him onward. He hurdled his busted bike, tripped and nearly faceplanted into asphalt, sheer momentum carrying his feet forward. His fingers stretched to grasp Wally’s pleading hand.

All Dick knew was _red glove_ and then the world was a rush of spinning colors as a force slammed into him from the side, barrelling him into the ground and _away from Wally_. Pain exploded in his chest at impact, but Dick barely noticed. His hands were scrabbling immediately at the asphalt, trying to push his body out from under the heavy weight that had pinned him.

“ _Wally!_ ” he screamed, the only word he knew in that moment. And Wally screamed his name back, torso disappearing into the portal, despite his attempts to cling to its edges.

“It’s not real, Dick,” growled a voice in his ear. Connor, registered some corner of Dick’s brain. 

Connor, whose arms were pressing Dick’s shoulders into the road, keeping him from saving his best friend.

Dick allowed the surge of anger to propel his escape, twisting his torso and whipping his legs into Connor’s knees to drive him to the ground. He was moving again the instant he was free, reaching for Wally’s desperate hand.

Strong arms slammed around Dick’s chest and arms, halting him in his tracks and pinning him to a solid chest. Dick growled and snapped his head back in frantic frustration.

“ _Let him go!_ ” he heard Wally yell. “ _Dick!_ ”

Dick smashed a heel into Connor’s knee and twisted against the hold, howling in rage when the man refused to budge.

Wally jolted backward with a terrified cry, chin dipping into the crackling black.

Dick threw himself forward, head hanging over Connor’s arms, and wailed. “ _Wally!_ ”

He would lose him again. Again, unable to save him. His toes dug into the road, pushing forward. Connor moved with him, using his weight to drive Dick's knees into the asphalt. Still crushing him to his chest.

Dick writhed, bucking his head. Through the tears, all he could see was the fear on Wally’s face.

Somewhere, a strained voice worried “He’s going to hurt himself.” 

Then there was a pressure in his head, like walls closing in. The last thing Dick saw before everything went black was a crop of red hair sinking into the crackling wall of plasma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, I don't know how much vigilante motorcycle repairs cost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's, uh, a single swear word in this chapter? So, consider yourself warned? Other than that, same stuff as the previous chapter: dealing with the death of a close friend, relatively minor injuries, etc.

_He looks exhausted_ , Connor thought, watching Dick trudge out of the garage. It was more than the bags cupping his eyes - something in his posture, in the faraway, glazed expression. Dick liked to try to hide his stress behind a shrug and a smile, but Connor had learned years ago to see through the act.

He’d also learned to pretend he didn’t, to act as though he was fooled by the performance. The few times he’d pierced the veil and confronted Dick about the obvious instability underneath had resulted in snapped words and weeks of silence behind an iron curtain.

It didn’t mean Connor wasn’t worried. Didn’t mean he was giving up on his friend. It was a process: trial and error, a gentle nudge here and there. Connor typically eschewed _tact_ , but he’d learn it if it meant saving Dick.

So when Dick hesitated by his bike at the offer of beer, Connor’s super-heart fluttered with hope - maybe he could coax him into conversation. Or at the least, get the guy to stop moving for a few hours. But then Dick pulled his helmet on and the buds of hope wilted.

“Thanks. But I’ve gotta get back.”

Connor bit down the instinctive rush of frustration, forcing his tone to remain casual. “Okay. Take it easy,” he called over the purring motor, unwilling to let the man rush off without a _few_ words of caution. “Don’t work too-”

But Dick was gone, tearing into the trees.

Connor stood on the porch, watching the spot where he vanished, fingers spasming on the railing. _Not anger_ , he reminded himself. But it was hard not to be angry with his friend. Not when he’d heard the hoarseness in Dick’s polite small talk. Not after seeing the state of Dick’s motorcycle when, two weeks prior, he’d dragged it through the zeta tube, sheepish smile underneath a forehead buried in bandages. Dick was flying a kamikaze course. Connor wanted to whack him off it.

A screech of tires filtered through the forest to Connor’s super-ears. Then a crash.

“ _Shit._ ” Of course he shouldn’t have let Dick drive in that state. “M’gann!” he yelled at the house before darting off the porch toward the source of the noise.

As Connor whipped through tree branches, he heard another sound. A voice, high-pitched, calling Dick’s name. He furrowed his brow and plowed onward.

The first thing he saw when he burst from the trees was a slight figure, what looked to be a teenager, standing in the middle of the road. She held one hand out toward the forest. In the other, stowed behind her back, gleamed a vicious-looking knife. 

“Dick, help,” she sang.

And from the forest stumbled a muddy, bloody Dick Grayson, running headlong at the girl with arms outstretched.

Connor moved without thinking, launching himself at his friend. They landed in a heap on the asphalt.

There was barely a moment to worry that he’d cracked Dick’s head against the pavement before he was struggling underneath him, twisting and clawing like a man possessed. He tipped his head back and _screamed_ : “ _Wally!_ ”

Connor hesitated, glancing up in alarm. But the only other person in sight was the girl, chewing her lip and glaring as she watched the wrestling match.

“It’s not real, Dick,” said Connor firmly. He didn’t know what exactly his friend was seeing, but it certainly wasn’t the dark-haired skinny-jeaned teenager with a knife.

In a move so practiced and acrobatic there was no opening to react, Dick spun Connor hard into the pavement. He grunted as his shoulder bore the brunt of the impact. But staying down wasn’t an option: Dick was lurching again for the unusual assassin.

This time, Connor crushed Dick to his chest, reaching around from behind to trap him in a bear hug. Better than bouncing him off the asphalt again. But the position gave Dick more leverage, and he fought the hold with utter desperation. Connor narrowly avoided getting his nose bashed in by Dick’s skull, nearly letting his grip slip in the process. Dick’s fingernails scratched at Connor’s arms, and he threw his weight around wildly. Connor grit his teeth and held firm.

“Let him go,” yelled the angry teen. In response, Connor just glared.

“Connor! What’s going on?”

The sound of M’gann’s voice sent a rush of relief through Connor’s limbs. It was enough of a distraction that he was caught off balance by Dick’s renewed attempts to free himself. They crashed together to their knees.

“He’s going to hurt himself!” Everything else happening was super unclear. But they could figure it out once Dick wasn’t thrashing around with broken ribs.

Connor saw the moment of indecision on M’gann’s face. But it hardened, quickly, into determination. A wave of admiration crested in Connor’s chest as his partner stepped toward them and placed her hands, gentle but firm, to Dick’s temples. Not two seconds later, he was limp in Connor’s arms.

M’gann opened her eyes with a sigh. _Thank you_ , Connor thought, channeling reassurance.

“Now,” M’gann’s voice was commanding as she turned to the young woman on the road. “What is this?”

The teen’s gaze darted between the couple like a jumpy rabbit. Then it landed on M’gann. And turned fierce. She offered out a hand to the Martian and softly, slowly, spoke her name.

M’gann gasped, posture going rigid. “Brother,” she whispered, and took a step toward the teen.

Carefully, respectfully, Connor laid Dick out on the ground. Then he stalked over to the girl and clocked her lights out with one well-aimed punch.

The knife clattered to the road as Connor gathered the teen into his arms. M’gann stood blinking, disoriented.

“Let’s get them to the house,” said Connor quietly.

***

The sun was setting and Connor was cutting vegetables in the kitchen when he heard Dick stir, a shifting and a quiet moan. He wiped his hands on a towel and eased into a chair opposite the couch where his friend was spread. Feeling intrusive, he studied his fingers, curling and uncurling into fists, as Dick made the slow ascent from unconsciousness.

“What time is it?” Dick was gazing warily out the window at the orange sky. 

Surprised that was his first question, Connor glanced to the oven clock and answered honestly. “5:27.”

“Shoot,” Dick said, and he shifted, digging his elbows into the couch like he was going to _get up_. “Gotta get to Tim’s.”

Connor wasted no time striding to stand over his friend, placing a palm to his chest and easing him firmly back onto the cushions. “You’re going nowhere.”

As though he’d be any help to Tim with double cracked ribs and a concussion. As though six hours ago he hadn’t been _screaming and crying_ in the street. 

Connor felt the familiar surge of anger. He allowed it to remain, simmering, as he lowered himself tightly back into the chair. “You want to talk about it?” he asked, tone making clear it was not so much a request as a heavy suggestion.

Dick turned his face away from Connor, into the pillows. For a moment, there was silence. Just as Connor was about to unleash a torrent of reprimands, Dick spoke, small: “What happened?”

Connor’s chest throbbed. It was rare to hear his friend so unsure. This was the conversation he had wanted, but Connor felt suddenly very ill-equipped to handle it. 

“Meta,” he said.

Dick didn’t move, but Connor could see by the tension of his shoulders and hands he was thinking, calculating.

“Another teenager,” Connor sighed, figuring it was best to out with it all at once. “M’gann’s talking to her right now. Won’t say who put her up to it. But her target was you.”

Dick said nothing, and Connor was increasingly annoyed at being forced to drive the conversation. “Well? You been poking around in meta-human trafficking rings again?” he prompted.

Dick’s breath hitched, imperceptible but for Connor’s super-hearing.

He was crying.

Connor fell silent, folding his hands stiffly in his lap. _I can’t do this_ , he thought desperately, hoping M’gann might hear him and come to the rescue. But through the panic, he willed some steel. He would do it. It’s what he’d wanted, anyway. To be a friend. Maybe an unhelpful friend. But a friend who was there.

“It felt real,” whispered Dick.

Connor dug his thumbnail into his palm. “Wally.”

Still facing away, Dick nodded, hair rustling against the pillow.

In the silence that followed, Connor sat taught, every muscle tensed and anxious. He didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? Today, Dick had lost his best friend all over again. There were no words that could patch that tear.

Slowly, haltingly, Connor slid from the chair to his knees. Feeling supremely awkward, he shuffled toward the couch. He lifted a hand, placed it back in his lap. Lifted it again and took Dick’s hand in his, loose and unsure.

Dick tensed and so did Connor, feeling his neck heat up with embarrassment, ready to scuttle away and grab M’gann so she could do some actual comforting.

But then the hand beneath his squeezed, gripping tight and not letting go.


End file.
